


Into Dream Into Nightmare Into Shade

by ninemoons42



Category: Haywire (2012), Inception (2010), Wanted (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Banter, Crossover, Guns, Introspection, Knives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Into Dream Into Nightmare Into Shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madsmurf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsmurf/gifts).



title: Into Dream Into Nightmare Into Shade  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 900  
fandoms: McFassy, Inception, Wanted, Haywire  
pairing: implied Wesley Gibson/Paul  
rating: PG-13  
notes: Written for [](http://madsmurf.livejournal.com/profile)[**madsmurf**](http://madsmurf.livejournal.com/), with additional inspiration from [this graphic](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1sf8a4SxT1r92sc8o1_500.png) created by [suave-graphics](http://suave-graphics.tumblr.com). An Inception mash-up, in which Wesley Gibson (Wanted) and Paul (Haywire) work in the dreamshare instead of in the assassination business, and they're both carrying people around in their subconscious, and they're about to embark on a job that they shouldn't be taking.

  
If there are things that still raise Paul’s hackles every single time, the sensation of a gun pressed to his skin comes a distant second. He is, naturally, beyond _inured_ to the idea. He knows exactly what the muzzle of his Glock feels like, how cold it is no matter where he uses it, how much recoil it’s got, how quickly it takes him out of the dream.

No, the thing that really bothers Paul is the mournful strange sound of a PASIV device in use. The damn thing _breathes_ , in a slowed down kind of way. Unnatural. Nothing breathes like that, and Paul should know, too, because he knows what things and people sound like as they take their last breaths.

Once is enough. You hear that sound once, you’ve heard it too many times.

Paul looks down, and clasps his hands behind his back, and he has the sudden strong urge to pick up the silver case and, well, he doesn’t know, take a crowbar to it or something. Break it to pieces, pull all the lines out and shred them, smash that damn yellow button in or something.

But he can’t, and instead he turns away from the device - though he can still see it out of the corner of his eye, the device and the closed door into this room both, because he might be an extractor but he’s also been a soldier, a mercenary, and he checks his six as easily as he breathes.

He gets to his knees, heedless of the worn and likely dirty carpet. One of the lines into the PASIV is in use. Cannula out, clear tubing against freckled skin and a map of blue veins. Where the map leads, who the fuck knows. Where the scars come from, well, each one has its story, and Paul doubts he’ll have the time to hear them all, all the true ones anyway, because if he’s tight-lipped about his past, the man who’s dreaming right now prefers to tell everything _but_ the truth about his.

Paul can’t help but think the guy’s on to something, but fuck if he’ll tell Wesley this. Not when he’s got a hair-trigger temper _and_ the best shooting hands Paul has ever seen, even wrapped around the incongruous H &K USP Compact that is the point man’s sidearm.

Wesley sleeps but still looks like he could spring up at any moment, still looks like he could be ready to wake up and in the next instant wrap his hands around his enemy’s throat and throttle the life out of them. Paul has seen that happen before.

It was the first time Wesley had saved his life. And Paul had been the extractor on the _other_ side.

Not for the first time, Paul wonders what Wesley dreams about, when he dreams, when he’s hooked up. The timer is counting down from ten minutes - a long time, for him, when he’s off the clock. Paul has heard the stories of the men and the woman standing guard at the gates of Wesley’s subconscious, just three of the reasons why no one crosses him, the top three on a very long list.

He’s still there, looking at the calluses on Wesley’s hand, the scars of being run through with a knife, when the PASIV beeps - time’s up - he lets his eyes move up the sleeve of the worn-out sweater, up past threadbare shoulder and prominent collar bone and then to Wesley’s face. Eyelids fluttering, then - he opens his eyes, and Paul is caught once again in those storm-blue eyes, as changeable as the heaving sea.

“How long have you been there,” Wesley mutters instead of saying anything so mundane as a greeting. But he mutters, he’s not being belligerent, and that’s more than enough for Paul.

“Long enough. Good dream?”

“One day you’ll find out what the fuck that is and then you can tell me, because I’ve never had one of those, not gonna fuckin’ start now.”

“Hello to you too.” Paul watches Wesley struggle up from the deck chair, one hand landing unerringly around the glass of water next to the table that holds the PASIV.

Wesley’s other hand, to Paul’s utter lack of surprise, grabs for his wrist through his summer-weight suit.

“Fox has a bad feeling about this job,” Wesley offers after a long few minutes.

“Mallory too,” Paul says, and taps the side of his head. The one thing he and Wesley have in common. The shades in their heads.

“Guess that makes it official.”

“I’ve already got the names you need to look up for me.”

Wesley’s grin is like his backup weapon - a vicious S-curve of a blade, the knife tucked in the small of his back. But while the knife is for anyone who pisses him off, and is usually deployed in the most terrifying ways, this smile is for Paul alone. The kind of sincere Wesley knows, the kind that comes with blood around the edges and the stink of cordite on his hands.

And Wesley might be certifiable, has already admitted to losing his marbles at least once - but then again, so has Paul, and there’s a saying about birds and feathers and flocks, only _they’re_ loaded for bear in real life and in dreams, and Paul won’t have it any other way.


End file.
